


The Tribute

by LadyNogs



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: BDSM, Brainwashing, Dubious Consent, F/M, Flogging, I swear I didn't mean for this to be this long, I'm Sorry, It just kind of happened, King Loki, Oral Sex, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-21
Updated: 2013-03-21
Packaged: 2017-12-06 01:16:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/730000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyNogs/pseuds/LadyNogs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU, in which the Chitauri invasion succeeded, and Loki is King.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this kind of got away from me. It started as a little plot bunny in the back of my head, and the next thing I knew I had 5000 words of mostly unapologetic smut.
> 
> The BDSM in this is not safe, not sane, and not entirely consensual (at least, in the sense that the real life power dynamic does not a healthy BDSM relationship make...). There is no scene negotiation (which there should be), there is no safeword (which there should be), and there is an element of coercion (which there shouldn't be).
> 
> See end note for additional info!

They kept sending him tributes. It was foolish - to think that he would spill his secrets in pillowtalk, to think he could not see how terrified they all were.

They had been leaders, once - now they were merely panderers. It disgusted him. When he turned away blondes, they sent redheads. When he turned away redheads, they sent brunettes. When pale skin failed to please him, they sent dark. Plump replaced slender, tall replaced short, age replaced youth. Exotic replaced common. A seemingly endless parade of terrified women, puppets for men too cowardly to confront their new king.

Some of them wept with relief when he dismissed them. Others begged to be kept, in some other capacity, anything but return empty-handed to their masters. It irked him, to know that these pathetic fools held more sway over these women than he himself did.

But no matter how many women he turned away from his chambers, still more came in their wake.

The latest one was waiting in a parlor, according to the runner who knelt gasping before his throne.

“Bring her in,” he said, idly tapping his scepter against the boot he had sprawled over the arm of the throne. It was the closest he had found to the throne of Asgard, but it still paled in comparison. The runner darted from the hall, and the courtiers gathered in the wings tittered. No doubt the endless stream of women was the subject of gossip amongst the men and women who had attached themselves to the new king.

It was several long moments before the massive double doors at the end of the hall swung open. The figure who passed between them was unusual, in that it did not hesitate to walk through the portal. The woman wore a deep green gown, high-collared and glistening, with her dark hair falling unrestrained down her back. She wasn’t exactly pretty - her nose was too bold, her eyes too widely spaced, her mouth too small. She was rounded in all the right places - a charitable man would have called her figure generous, an uncharitable one too plump. Her hair was perhaps her loveliest feature - thick, glossy chestnut and honey and amber, shot through with a scattering of silver strands, and falling to her waist in a rippling curtain. Her skin was fair, though it showed more of her age than the silver in her hair - faint lines bracketed her eyes and mouth, remnants of smiles past. But more than that, what intrigued the king was her demeanor. She did not cower before him, did not quail under his gaze. She approached the throne with confidence rarely seen on Midgard, a certain strength of self that seemed lacking in so many mortals, and though her curtsy was deep enough to be proper, elegant enough to speak of breeding and an elegant education, there was little in it of supplication. She held the curtsy until he granted her permission to rise, a courtesy that so far none of the mortals here had extended, and he wondered who had trained her to address a king properly.

She straightened smoothly, her skirts falling into place, and met his gaze with a half-smile that almost seemed mocking.

“Who approaches the rightful King of Midgard?” he asked, his tone bored. She inclined her head before answering.

“Your Highness, if it pleases you, I am Rhian, of the province formerly known at the United States of America,” she replied, and her voice only deepened his curiosity. Her words were unaccented - their pronunciation crisp, but untainted by any regional affectation.

“And who has sent you here, mortal?”

“No one, Your Highness. I came of my own accord.” He allowed his expression to mirror his surprise. Occasional truth always added spice to lies, and kept ones’ enemies off balance.

“Your own accord? None of the women who have walked through that door have ever come of their own accord. Who pulls your strings, pretty little puppet?” She smiled fully, revealing neat white teeth. The smile transformed her face from merely unusual to something approaching beauty.

“I had hoped that you would, Your Highness,” she replied, and spread her hands slightly, wrists towards him, as though placing herself on display. Something in her posture said weak. The angle of her shoulder, the tilt of her head, the catch of her breath, they all said I am weak, and need protection, I am nothing to you, less than all, a pitiful thing. It was very obviously deliberate, very obviously calculated, and he was suddenly certain that she was well aware that he could and would see through her. “I understand that you have been looking for a...concubine?” He arched an eyebrow. A faint blush stained her cheeks, and she raised her chin as though struggling to find pride in her desperation. “I would humbly ask that you consider me for the position, Your Highness. I am a simple woman, with simple desires - I ask only that you extend to me your protection, should it be required. I have come to offer succor, and what pleasures I might give.” Her eyes widened, that expressive face shaped into something like fear, something like pleading. Even her voice trembled, as though she fought some strong emotion. It was all a sham - she was as perfectly in control as she had been when she stepped through those doors - and yet every person in the room other than the king saw exactly what she projected. They saw her as someone weak, someone helpless, someone begging for protection from the king.

It was then that he realized what she was. She was a weapon. An exquisitely crafted, eminently deadly weapon. And someone wanted him to wield her. He narrowed his eyes at her, and saw a flicker of a nod, an acknowledgement that she had read him as easily as he read her. This one was very dangerous. He lounged back in his throne, watching as she trembled so artfully before him.

“You intrigue me, mortal.” He pointed the scepter at her heart, and for the first time, he saw genuine fear in her expression. “Tell me, would you come to my bed willingly, or would you have to be persuaded?” Her eyes flicked from his to the glowing blue gem in the scepter, and he realized that her only fear was of losing control.

“My lord,” she breathed, sinking into another curtsy, deeper than the first, her skirts spread wide, her head bowed. “Forgive my impertinence. If you would allow me the courtesy of attending you in privacy, I would gladly demonstrate just how willingly I would come to your bed.” It was a calculated risk, and he was pleased that she had the courage to take it. He pulled the scepter up from where it rested on her breastbone, lifting her chin with it, until she met his eyes. There was heat there, which he had not expected - it would seem her desire, at least, was unfeigned, or so artfully done that even he could not sense the deceit. He wondered idly if she would be so eager if she knew his true origins, or if she, too, would cower from him in fear.

“Give her the apartments adjacent to mine. You are to treat her as my most loyal subject, worthy of respect. Her belongings are as my own. Allow her time to settle in to her new home, and at 7PM precisely, she will dine with me. Alone.” He dropped the scepter and looked away, a clear dismissal. The woman bowed her head briefly, and rose from her curtsy before backing out of the hall. Her manners were truly impeccable. And it would be a pity to burn such a bright mind to ash before plumbing its depths. Perhaps this night, at least, he would have some sort of entertainment.


	2. Chapter 2

Her heart was hammering in her ears as the servant led her deeper into the palace. He had accepted her, though not explicitly as his concubine, which meant she still had some hope. She hoped he’d seen what she had tried to show him - that she was an asset, something that could be used to cement his rule here, to prepare for the coming onslaught.

Her teachers would have punished her, for revealing so much with her eyes - she had been trained to give nothing away, to be completely undetectable until it was too late. That explained part of her terror. The bulk of it, however, lay in that staff that Loki so casually handled. The servant leading her to her apartments bore the glassy blue eyes of one touched by its power. The king himself bore traces of its magic, and that shook her to the core. She would have to be absolutely certain, before she revealed the full extent of her training, or all would be lost before it began.

The servant stopped outside yet another palatial door, and after opening it gave her a perfunctory bow and strode off down the hallway. Rhian gathered her racing thoughts, and stepped inside.

The room was opulent - and decidedly feminine. The carpets were a lush cream, the furnishings cast in hues of cream and gold. There was little of the king’s touch here - no heavy gold embroidery, no black and emerald, no harsh Norse lines. Her cases had already been brought up, though how the servants had managed it without her seeing it done was a question she couldn’t answer. She unpacked with the same efficiency as she had packed - clothing into the ornately carved wardrobe, toiletries onto the silver-chased tray on the vanity, her modest electronics on the writing desk in the entry parlor. She knew that she was being monitored - perhaps electronically, perhaps magically. Either way, it didn’t matter. She could feel eyes on her skin, and so she did not allow herself the luxury of letting her facade break. There was a clock on the mantle - she had two hours before she would be expected to present herself for dinner with the king, and she planned to put them to good use.

Her heavy green gown was unfastened and hung to air in the wardrobe, and she drew a thin silk dressing gown around herself as she padded into the bathroom. She drew a scalding bath, adding a few drops of scented oil, and sank into the deep clawfoot tub with a sigh of relief. The heat loosened the tension that had wound its way into her muscles, but she didn’t have time to soak as long as she would have wished. She washed carefully, shaving her legs to ensure their smoothness, and dipped her head to ensure that all of her hair absorbed the scent of the oils she had added to the bath. All too soon, it was time to get out, to towel herself dry and smooth more oils into her skin before wrapping her hair in a length of toweling and settling at the vanity.

Her eyes gazed back at her, dark and empty of the turmoil that still roiled behind them. She kept her makeup subtle - a hint of shadow, a touch of rouge, and the face that emerged from beneath her brushes was that of a woman touched with the flame of desire. Her eyes seemed wider, darker, her lips fuller, her cheeks rosy. Her hair dried quickly, and she carefully wove it into an intricate updo, coiling its length at her crown and studding it with a handful of emerald-tipped hairpins. Tendrils escaped to fall softly around her face, and though the effect was that of carelessness, she felt certain that the king would know the effort involved in looking so elegantly disheveled.

The gown she chose was less demure than the one she had worn to her first audience with him - it was also green, though so dark it almost seemed black. The neckline was wide, though not terribly deep, baring her collarbones and a pleasing expanse of creamy skin. The bodice clung to her curves, falling away from her hips in heavy folds. Slippers of green velvet, and a touch of scent at her throat and wrists, and she crossed the bedroom to the door that clearly linked her apartments with those of the king. It was precisely five to seven.

Rhian smoothed her skirts, fighting down a surge of fear. She knew the risks of revealing herself entirely - but the risks of keeping too much hidden were equally as grave. If she failed to gain his trust, if he saw her as a threat, she would never leave this room. It set her pulse racing, and she did nothing to calm it - a little truth would make the lies she had to tell all the more believeable. Despite the risk, despite the danger, some part of her thrilled at the challenge. This was what she had been created to do - reforged from the broken girl who had first walked into the Red Room into a weapon worthy of being wielded by a king. She could only pray that this king would take her up.


	3. Chapter 3

He was not surprised to hear her knock fall on the door as the hour chimed.

“Enter,” he called, and the handle turned. She turned to close the door behind her before stepping into his chambers and falling immediately into a deep curtsy. Her velvet gown pooled around her feet, and he was treated to a pleasant view of her abundant cleavage. He stood above her, too close for propriety, and relished the way her breath quickened as she held the submissive pose.

He admired her for a moment, noting the precise line of her back, the submissive bend of her neck, the strength with which she held the demanding pose. She had been very well-trained. Her manners, her speech, the way she held her body - everything spoke to her skill as a courtier. Such trained pets were rare here, and almost always used for spycraft or assassination. He wondered which role she had been cast in. His surveillance had revealed no weapons, either in her chambers or on her person, but the most deadly of assassins needed nothing so crude as a blade.

“Tell me, mortal, are you a blade for my back, or an eye to be blinded?” To her credit, she did not flinch at the accusation. If anything, she stilled even further.

“Neither, my Lord,” she replied. “I am the weapon my teachers crafted me to be - the unseen eye, the unheard ear, the silent death in the night. But my teachers are dead, and I have neither master nor mistress. I have come into possession of information that may be of use, and it is the only coin I have to offer, other than myself.”

He was silent for a long while, listening for the lie in her words.

“You may rise,” he drawled, turning away from her. Her gown rustled as she stood, and he heard her breath catch as she viewed the room she found herself in.

It was dark, lit by a scattering of thick beeswax candles. The low table bore two covered silver trays, a decanter of wine, and two crystal glasses. The rest of the room was severe - dark and masculine, all heavy wood and dark velvet. Her breath had caught when she had seen the whipping cross in the corner. There was a rack with an assortment of whips and floggers beside it, and several lengths of carefully coiled rope. He turned back to her, and her face was a carefully blank mask. She was very still - only the flutter of her pulse in the hollow of her throat giving her away as something other than a statue. Her stillness, her lack of expression - they could have concealed fear, or desire, or anger. He had never found any mortal so difficult to read, and he admired her skillful performance in the hall even more greatly. She had revealed herself to him, and no one else - when she could have hidden it from him, as well. Very dangerous, for a mortal.

Oh, her physical form was still fragile - perhaps too fragile for his use, even - but her mind was formidable. He wondered, briefly, if she was a student of the Red Room, as Agent Romanov had been - though, if she were, it was quite plain that Ms. Romanov had not progressed to the more advanced training. She had been painfully easy to read, her emotions too close to the surface. This Rhian, however, seemed capable of deception on par with himself.

“Will you pretend to be surprised, then? Surely you have some knowledge of the darker arts of love?” Her eyes flicked to his face, and once again, her face was transformed by her smile into something almost beautiful. She lowered her head, the slightest of bows.

“My Lord, you must know by now that I am capable of pretending a great many things. But for the right price, I will pretend absolutely nothing.” Her wit startled him into a laugh - perhaps the first genuine laugh he’d let slip in decades....centuries....that it was a mortal that brought him actual pleasure only deepened his mirth, and he laughed harder. Tears pricked his eyes, and he looked at her as though through a shimmering haze. Her head was cocked ever so slightly to the side, her eyes sharp, like a hawk. Her expression was, for once, unguarded, and he caught a glimpse of the calculating predator beneath her warm facade.

“Ah, there we are,” he purred, controlling his laugh at last. “No masks, just the predator I always knew was there. You are very clever, little mortal. Very clever indeed, to be able to hide what you are even from me, at least for a little while.” He prowled closer to her, leaning over her. She had done him the courtesy of not attempting to conceal the coldness in her eyes. There was little human warmth in them now. “They made you into the perfect little monster, didn’t they?”


	4. Chapter 4

The first time he touched her, it was just a fingertip, cool and smooth, trailing down the side of her cheek. Her teachers had warned her, long ago, that revealing the machinery underneath the masks was a risk that must only be taken when there was no other choice. Better to be compromised on your own terms than on theirs. Judging by her racing pulse, and the pool of heat in her belly, she was compromised. But then, she had been compromised before she ever set foot in his throne room. No teachers. No mission. No goal. The Red Room was no more - a relic of a time before global conquest, before the futility of rebellion was exposed.

Rhian had run, when the first rumor had flickered through the Red Room. She had killed one of the guards, breaking his throat on her hand, and she had slipped free. It had been so easy that for months afterward she had been convinced that her teachers had allowed it, sanctioned it.

But the reality had been a harder pill to swallow. The teachers had given up. The intelligence they had so painstakingly gathered had come to naught - the King was a puppet of the Tesseract, a puppet of Thanos, the Mad Titan, and Earth was doomed. There had been a night, not long after Rhian had fled, that every girl in the Red Room had shared a cup of tea laced with cyanide. She had seen to it that they were buried.

And now, she stood in the bedchamber of the King, trembling under his hand, with no goal, no guidance, no sharp red line to tether herself. And so she took yet another risk - perhaps her biggest. The King was volatile, ruled by whim and petty cruelty, prone to incredibly painful reminders of his dominance.

“The Red Room made me what I am. Tell me, Loki Laufeyson, was it Thanos who made you what you are, or Odin Allfather?”

His fingers were a sudden, crushing vise at her throat, lifting her and shoving her backwards against a wall. He held her easily, his grip more punishment than necessity, and her heels drummed against the plaster a foot above the plush carpeting. Stars danced in her vision, and she clung to his wrists in a futile struggle for breath. Her jaw creaked, the joint protesting, and for a moment she felt certain he would crush her skull, but his grip didn’t tighten further.

“There are two names you will never use in my presence, mortal. One of them is...his. That name must never be spoken aloud. The other is Laufeyson.” His voice rasped in her ear, his breath hot on her cheek, and she felt a shiver of horror as he pressed himself against her. His body was lean, tightly muscled beneath the ornamental armor he wore, and his hand on her jaw was like steel. “I am no one’s son, little monster.” With a flick of his wrist, he released her, letting her collapse at his feet. The air burned in her lungs, but she took in great gulps of it, struggling to find what little composure she had left. “Get up,” he snapped, and she pulled herself to her feet. “You know what you should not. And yet you do not seem to understand that to name a thing is to draw its attention. And believe me, little mortal, you would not survive his attention long. You will attend me as I dine, and you will tell me how you came by this knowledge, and if I am not satisfied with your answers, I will make you wish you had died with your sisters in the Red Room. Do you understand me?”

“Perfectly, my Lord,” she replied, dismayed at the hoarseness of her voice, and moved to stand beside the table.


	5. Chapter 5

It was the strangest interrogation she had ever experienced. She poured his wine, exchanged courses, and spilled every secret the Red Room had given her. He never touched her, never threatened her, never raised his voice - merely glanced at her when the forbidden name threatened to tumble past her lips. When her abused throat grew dry, he told her to pour herself a glass of wine, which she gulped too quickly, her manners deserting her in her desperation to confess.

And that is what it was - a confession. It was like lancing a wound - the poison of her training drained away from her, and she talked until her throat was raw and aching, and her tongue felt swollen and thick. She told him of her training, her skills at deceit and emotional manipulation. She told him everything the Red Room had told her of Thanos, of the enemy yet to come. She told him of their fear that he was a puppet of the Mad Titan, as so many of his servants were puppets. She told him of their despair, of their terror, of their surrender. She told him of her own desperate flight, the stepping stones of power she had danced among to find her way here, to his palace. And she told him of her own reaction, her fear and desire and horror of him. Finally, she had no more words to give, and she sank to her knees before the King, a strange calm falling over her. She had told him the truth, all of it, and there was no more game to play.

 

***

When his hand caressed her hair, she swayed into him, pressing her cheek against the cool leather of his thigh. He was strangely moved by her trust in him - the torrent of words had taken very little prompting. And her information was valuable - he had not known that so many of Midgard’s former rulers saw him as a pawn of Thanos. They could not have possibly known the terrible bargain he had reached with the Mad Titan - that Midgard would be spared, did he keep it in trust for Mistress Death. Nor could they have known the double-cross he had so carefully laid. He let his clever fingers work through the elaborate tower of curls, plucking pins free - thick curls fell around her face, spilling over his knee. He heard her breath catch in a muffled sob, and her hand curled around the ankle of his boot, fingers twitching. These were not tears of sentiment, merely exhaustion, and relief. 

He stroked her head idly, sipping his wine. He had several courses to choose from. He could kill her, which was probably the wisest course. Any mortal with her skills was a threat to him, and to his plan. He could turn her away, and risk that some other would pick her up and use her against him. Or he could reward her cooperation, and use her himself. He was loathe to destroy or discard such a lovely tool, and she at least promised to be intriguing.

“Do you wish to be free of it, little monster?” he asked, his voice almost gentle. Her breath caught, again, caught and held.

“What do you mean?” Her voice was rough, unstrung, free of her careful control.

“You have confessed all to your god, little monster. It is only fitting that I offer....absolution....for your sins.” He felt the shudder that ran through her. “You seek atonement, do you not?”

“Yes, my Lord,” she whispered. Her hand tightened momentarily on his ankle.

“Then rise, and disrobe.” He made his voice cold. She rose smoothly, her face expressionless. Without a sound, she stepped out of her slippers, twisting her arms behind her back to unfasten the row of buttons down her back. The green silk gown slid from her shoulders and pooled at her feet, and when she stepped free of it she was bare. The candlelight was kind to her, gilding her skin like fine ivory, sending shots of fire through the curls that now fell freely down her back. She knew what he expected of her, and she moved to stand before the whipping cross, pausing only to knot her hair at the nape of her neck, baring her back completely.

***

She had expected him to be cruel - this odd gentleness, the near tenderness with which he lashed her to the cross, all of it was unexpected. Her control was shattered, and she trembled under his touch. There was nothing sexual in this, nothing of lust - his hands were almost impersonal. It was only after she was secure, her wrists and ankles bound, that he touched her more than was strictly necessary, a long, slow caress from the nape of her neck down her spine to curl around the swell of her hip. His breath at her shoulder was cool.

“You are a very lovely little monster, my pet,” he murmured, and reached for a whip.

She knew there would be pain - expected it, craved it, even. This had always been her greatest flaw, and her greatest asset. Who better to send into the risk of torture than someone who took pleasure in pain? The danger lay in her captors discovering the truth of her nature, and using pain as reward. She also knew, that here, with the god-king, that there was no safeword, no magic spell to end it, and she felt a frission of fear at the thought of being beaten to death.

She had not anticipated skill.

The first blows were feather-light, mere caresses against her skin, progressing slowly to stronger lashes, the whip a singing red line of exquisite agony. He worked her over slowly, thoroughly, from nape to knees, a careful pattern worked into her fair skin.

She cried out, the first time the whip drew blood, rough and needy, and he murmured his approval. Her pulse was a roaring in her ears, her mind long lost to the susurrus of leather against her skin, the rush of her breath in her lungs - too hot, too fast, too much. Distantly, she felt the tears on her cheeks, heard him whisper words of encouragement, filthy with promise, and she sagged against the cross. Still, the blows fell, and she felt herself drift, lost in the slap of the whip, the heat that spread beneath her skin, the slow blossoming agony that washed away her guilt and her fear and her dread, until she was nothing but the sounds he drew from her throat, broken and wanting and desperate.

When he finished, she felt his breath at her ear, felt his fingertips ignite flames of pain as he traced his work, and then those long fingers were dipping between her thighs, finding her wet and open and craving, and when he plunged them into her, she shattered, coming apart around his hand in helpless spasms, and the only word on her lips was his name.


	6. Chapter 6

Loki found himself shocked, yet again, by this mortal. She had allowed him to bind her to the whipping cross without complaint, submitting with grace to the torment she must have known he would inflict. He had used his skill, curious as to her limits, wanting to hear her beg for mercy. Not that he would have granted it, but the pleading would have been what any other mortal would have done.

But she had not begged. She had not flinched from the lash, had not cried out in fear - her response had been one of desire. That first cry, when the whip split her fair skin, when her blood trickled slow and red from the cut across her shoulders, had nearly undone him - it was the sound of a woman wrought with pleasure, a lover beneath her beloved, not a penitent under the whip. He could not restrain himself, urging her to submit to him, and his words had fanned his own lust as much as hers. He found himself encouraging her, goading her with dark, twisted fantasies, a preview of the horrors he longed to inflict on her flesh, the terrible ways he would unmake her, and she had not begged even then, merely arched against the cross in helpless, frustrated desire.

When she sagged against the ropes, he feared for a moment that she had lost consciousness, that he had broken her body before he could break her exquisite mind, but she rolled her head back and moaned, eyes open and staring, and he realized that she had merely surrendered to the pain, something he had not known she was capable of. He kept her there, at the peak of sensation, watching the way her features smoothed with every blow, for what seemed like hours, his arm steady and untiring, and slowly brought her down.

He had not anticipated her physical arousal - when his fingers had slipped across flesh that was hot and wet and silken, he had felt his own lust like a sickening jolt, a hot spear of desire that brought him up hard and aching against the tight leather of his clothing. He had not been gentle, when he penetrated her - but even so, she came to a shattering release, clenching around his hand, and cried his name like a prayer.

He was still achingly hard when he cut her down, his heartbeat a rapid tattoo, when she sank to the floor with a sigh, turning to nuzzle at his thigh instinctively, and he found his hand tangled in her hair, drawing her head back to meet his gaze. Her eyes were blown wide, endless dark pools of lust, and when he tugged his laces free her lips parted softly. He wasn’t sure when he had decided to use her mouth, only that when he thrust forward she swallowed him down to the hilt without complaint, the muscles of her throat milking his length. His grip tightened on her hair, and his thrusts rapidly grew harder, sharper, bruising her lips, but the tears that rolled silently down her cheeks only inflamed him further. Her mouth was like wet silk, all heat and glide and the flick of her tongue against the underside of his shaft, and all too soon he spent himself deep in her throat.

She held very still, waiting until his breathing calmed and his fingers loosened in her hair, his cock softening as she gently sucked the last traces of his release from his flesh. When he withdrew, she tilted her head back, her jaw slack, to reveal the milky pool of his seed on her tongue, her eyes pleading.

“Swallow,” he rasped, his voice hoarse, and he smiled as she obeyed.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, there is an actual plot in this, of sorts. At the moment, it's mostly just a sketchy outline, with a few scattered scenes, and this was a good end point. There will likely be another installment, in which case this will become a series. This is my first serious foray into this fandom - aside from rabidly reading others' works.


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